Category: lady business
(page 1 of 5)

I myself am a big fan, as you probably already know, based on the number of blog posts and now a bestselling short story I’ve written about my yaboes.

In fact, I interrupt this blog post for an important message: BREASTS ARE BEAUTIFUL. Big or small, (or in my case—one of each), old or new, shaken or stirred, boobs rock. And nobody, I mean NOBODY, can tell me otherwise.

Which is why I am so disturbed about women being told to stop breastfeeding in public.

The following is my opinion about breasts, nursing, and Chick-fil-A-Holes. Warning, there is bad language (from me) and shockingly offensive intolerance (from others). Read at your own risk.

Have I ever told you about the time I accidentally sprayed breast milk all over my dentist?

No?

Oh honey. Pull up a chair—this is a juicy one… so to speak.

Honestly, I would have rather been at home cradling my newborn son’s sweet little blue face to my beach-ball-sized bosoms, but I just couldn’t wait another day—I had to get to the dentist. It was an emergency.

I’m a “woman of a certain age.” Oh fine, I’ll tell you. I’m 43. And like most of my friends born in the ’60s and ’70s, my teeth are falling apart. I don’t know if it’s because we didn’t have the same preventative dental care back then or because I didn’t do a very good job brushing the Razzles and Now and Laters off my teeth, but by the time I was a senior in high school, every single one of my back molars was more filling than tooth. (Sorry, Mom.)

And the metal fillings from back then? They had a shelf life. By the time I was 30, every single one of those fillings had needed to be replaced.

All that drilling and refilling takes a toll on the old chompers.

I got my first crown when I was 35.

And then when I was pregnant with Bucket Head, it was obvious that I was going to need another crown.

But I was pregnant! And going to the dentist is the only time I get the good drugs! It would have to wait.

I bided my time for the rest of my pregnancy, chewing only on one side of my mouth and avoiding anything too hot, cold, sweet, or crunchy. It sucked. And then apparently while I was giving birth and biting on that leather strap out in the woods (not really, but that’s what it felt like) I cracked that compromised molar somethin’ fierce. I would need to get to the dentist as soon as I could remove the ice-pack from my nethers.

My husband had to work that day, so I called my neighbor and BFF, Tammie, and asked if she would be so kind as to drive me and newborn Bucket Head to the dentist and hold Bucket Head in the waiting room while I got my new temporary crown. “It will take two hours, tops.”

She agreed, God love her.

We timed it perfectly, or so we thought.

We got there a little early, and I nursed baby Bucket Head in the waiting room. Then he fell asleep in Tammie’s arms as I waited to be called into the back.

I was really scared. I hate having dental work done. It riles every single one of my freakishly heightened senses and I usually get prescribed valium for the night before and the morning of my procedure.

But I didn’t want to do that since I was nursing. I was drug-free and more nervous than a virgin at a prison rodeo.

As luck would have it, the dentist was running behind, and our perfectly timed breast feeding was for naught.

I’ll never forget it as long as I live. There I was, fully reclined in the dentist chair—mouth wide open, eyes tightly shut against the bright light, suction tube slurping away while the dentist drilled… and drilled… and drilled. I had my iPod rocking in my ears so I wouldn’t hear any of it. But the song ended, and in that 3 second lull between songs, I heard my baby cry.

Game over.

The tingling started. Then I felt the slightest bit of wetness in my ginormous nursing bra. I squeezed my eyes shut harder and prayed my breast pads would soak up the run-off.

The drilling persisted. My dentist, also a mother, kept stopping every few seconds to ask if I was okay, “Do you need me to stop?”

“No, keep going! He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you want to go see him?”

“NO. The Novocain! It might wear off. Just do it. But hurry. I’m starting to leak.”

Suddenly, Bucket Head’s cries were the only thing I could hear, even over the drilling and the music on my headphones. My sweet little baby needed me, and my milk bags were responding to his hungry pleas.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I glanced down and my shirt was soaked. Actually, it was my husband’s shirt, since I had just had a baby and all I could fit in was one of his old button downs.

Behold, a dramatic reenactment:

The milk flow was so strong and steady, it soaked clear through the paper bib resting on my chest.

Y’all, there was milk everywhere. It was dripping down my back onto the chair!

I could smell it.

I was absolutely mortified.

Everyone worked at lightening speed to get me up and out of there. (And not just because of the milky mess I was making in their dentist chair.) The microsecond that temporary crown clicked into place, I was on my way back to the waiting room, unbuttoning my shirt like Clark Kent on his way to the phone booth. I could not get that baby onto my boob fast enough. Poor Tammie—I practically ripped her arms off taking that wailing baby from her.

Thankfully, everyone in the dentist’s office was so sweet and understanding. “Bless your heart!” they clucked repeatedly, and not in the stereotypical Southern “Oh you pitiful idiot” kind of way. It was more like, Solidarity, sister! We salute you and your overactive milk ducts!They were women helping one of their own, and I would be forever grateful.

Talk about the milk of human kindness.

This post, and my 13-year-old son’s future therapy bills for having to take that reenacted photo of my leaking fun-bags, were both made possible by the International Breast Milk Project. Their vision is that every infant in the world have access to donor human milk as a first choice when a mother’s own milk is not available, and they aim to create awareness for the need for donor human milk, mobilize donors, and provide donor milk to infants in need.

Hear ye, hear ye! The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge welcomed their first child, a son, on Monday afternoon in London!

Ah, isn’t she lovely?

Like so many others, I was absolutely glued to the TV and Twitter earlier this week anxiously awaiting the exciting news of the new little royal heir. And clearly, I wasn’t alone. Based on the news coverage, you would think this was the first baby ever born in the history of the world.

Can you blame us, soaking up the media drippings like thirsty sponges. This is no ordinary birth story. This is a real life fairy tale.

But actually, even though lovely Duchess Kate has just given birth with the utmost of pomp and circumstance to a child who is third in line for the British throne, her birthing experience was remarkably similar to mine.

For instance: we both had boys.

Both of our boys were born in hospitals, in the late afternoon.

Kate’s baby was 8 lb., 6 ounces; mine was 8 lb., 5 ounces.

We both had matriarchal grandmothers with questionable taste in hats eagerly awaiting the news.

We both had doting husbands by our sides. Although, in my case, my husband was actually lying by my side because he had thrown out his back playing 36 holes of golf with his buddies just weeks before my due date and was in too much pain to stand up for very long. (Motherfucker.)

We both pushed our little princes out of our royal vajewelry boxes and earned souvenir peri bottles and ice-pack-filled stretchy mesh undies.

Both of our sons have official titles. Kate’s son shall be called “His Royal Highness Prince of Cambridge;” my son was dubbed “Sir Cone Head of the Epidurally Paralyzed and Sluggishly Low Muscle Toned Birth Canal.”

We both had easels displayed shortly after our births to share critical information with the public. Kate’s was placed on the sidewalk and announced that she “was safely delivered of a son;” mine was placed outside of my hospital room and announced “WARNING: Extreme Post-Partum Sensory Disorder! Take extra precautions and avoid all physical contact. Patient requests that hospital staff remove all traces of perfume, scented body lotions, and hummus breath before entering.”

Both Kate and I enjoyed a celebratory 41-gun salute. Kate’s was performed by the King’s Troop Royal Horse Artillery in Green Park; mine was performed by my flatulent father-in-law’s pants every time he bent down to admire his newest grandchild.

And lastly, we both had a uniformed man outside shouting after the birth. Kate’s was a royalist dressed as the town crier. Mine was a hospital custodian shouting, “WE’RE GOING TO NEED HAZMAT SUITS AND EXTRA BLEACH…APPARENTLY SHE ATE SAUSAGE AND PEPPERS YESTERDAY.”

Not that you want anything to sound “catchy” when you’re talking about vaginas, but you get my drift.

Wait.

Can I start over?

(This is why I don’t do more sponsored product reviews.)

Starting over, NOW.

Hello lady friends. Do you or someone you love suffer from urinary incontinence or sexual dysfunction?

Then you might have weakened PC (pubococcygeus) muscles. These muscles are attached to the pelvic bone and act like a hammock, holding in our pelvic organs. The weakening of these muscles is a natural part of aging due to gravity, pregnancy, childbirth, and the axis of evil.

Don’t panic. You’ve got choices.

1.) Spend the rest of your life changing your bulky pee-pee pads or adult diapers every time you laugh or sneeze.

2.) Have surgery and hope the transvaginal mesh they use to hoist up your goodie bag doesn’t get recalled a few years later.

3.) Tone up your PC muscles with a regular Kegel routine.*

4.) There are probably other options, but I only have so many hours a day to devote to my vagina-related research.

I don’t know about you, but I’m totally going for the prize behind door number three, Monty. And I might possibly be the laziest woman on Earth, so that’s saying a lot.

Speaking of sexual dysfunction and laziness, this is my idea of “doing it doggie style.”

Sad but true.

Anyhooo.

I’d like to pause right here and remind you that I’m not a health expert in any way shape or form. Please do your research before embarking on any exercise or treatment program.

I’ve been doing Kegels and teaching my friends about them for a long time, but I’ve recently suspected that my little “Kegel at stop signs and red lights” trick may not be enough to make a difference in my long-term health. Apparently that’s like doing three sit-ups during a Here Comes Honey Boo Boo commercial break and then going to refill your ice cream bowl.

Sorry, but I take my vagina more seriously than that, and you should too. (Your own vagina, that is—not mine. Thankyouverymuch.)

The folks at The Medical Center for Female Sexuality think Kegels are so important that we should be doing them for a minimum of 5-10 minutes every day! And they’ve created a way to help us do just that.

They sent me a copy of their Kegels Anywhere CD to review and I’ve been using it religiously for about two weeks.

The CD is designed so that you can gradually increase your workout as your PC muscles grow stronger. There is a four-minute Beginner Circuit, two five-minute circuits, and two ten-minute circuits.

Regardless of the amount of time you choose to devote to your daily Kegel workout, you can choose the type of background music to squeeze to: “Piano Dream” or “Smooth Jazz.” Personally, I prefer the “Piano Dream.” The “Smooth Jazz” tracks remind me of Kenny G and I don’t really want to be thinking about him when I’m rhythmically pulsing my lady junk. (No offense, Kenny G.)

The beginning of the CD has a very informative introduction. I think the voice-over artist speaks a little fast, but after you hear her spiel a couple of times, you don’t really need that part anymore.

One word of warning, take it from me and DO NOT listen to the Introduction or “How To Do Kegel Exercises” track in the car if your kids are with you. There’s a part when the speaker explains where the PC muscles are and suggests you can find them by “inserting a finger into your vagina.”

Long story short, Bucket Head is probably telling his Kindergarten teacher things like “My mommy does exercises with her bagina,” and “A bagina is like a pocket! You can stick things IN THERE! You shouldn’t stick things in your penis though. A penis is not a pocket like a bagina.”

(Sadly, that’s not even the weirdest conversation we had all week.)

Like any exercise CD, the voice-over guides you through each routine. The thing I like about it is that I can just follow her lead and not think about timing or repetitions. The five or ten minutes actually flies by and unlike my Jillian Michaels’ DVDs, I’m not looking at the clock and muttering a pox on her the whole time.

I’m pretty excited to report that over the past two weeks I have gradually increased my workout from the four-minute Beginner Circuit to the ten-minute circuit. A couple more weeks of this and I’ll be able to open beer bottles with my lady cave. I just don’t want to bulk up my vag muscles too much; that could lead to my vagizness wearing a muscle-tee at the gym and pounding protein shakes between reps. I draw the line, you know?

*Disclaimer: I’m not a doctor, and this is a sponsored post. Please do your own independent research before choosing a treatment plan for your aging lady bits. I also will not be held responsible if we find out ten years from now that Kegels are the Anti-Christ. I’m just sharing a potential resource. What you do with that information is up to you.

Well I’m just back from NYC and have lots to tell you about my exciting/painful/star-studded/harrowing/grope-tastic/hilarious/exhausting/potentially-life-threatening journey to BlogHer and back, but that will have to wait for later this week because I’m about as tired as the mauve-accented linoleum that still graces my circa 1993 master bathroom.

So instead, I have not one but “TWO-TWO-TWO-for-the-price-of-one!” posts up at In The Powder Room this week that you are certainly going to enjoy if you are a fan of things like lady bits and/or the F-bomb. Because I know what you cheeky-monkeys like and I am a fast motherfucking learner. ‘Nuff said.

But before you go, here’s some eye candy as a parting gift:

Aren’t my business cards fabulous? Especially THERE! Day-um.

No, that’s not my spectacular rack/card holder. It belongs to one of my fun blogging sister-wives who was gracious enough to let me store some personal items all up in her boobness while I rifled through my ginormous purse for a cheeseburger. Sort of. Whatever. You know what, forget that part, just bask in the majesty of that glorious anonymous cleavage and then go read my smut In The Powder Room, m’kay?